Baking only means one thing at my place – mess

Naughty Great British Bake Off.

Several weeks spent watching 'ready, steady, bake', and I'm inspired. I'm a wannabe baker. It can't be that hard. My husband rolls his eyes – here we go again, he says, long used to my fads.

Hmm. . . a rummage through my kitchen drawers though reveals a few rusty baking trays, a single trusty jam tart tray and some unopened steam pudding basins (must have been here before).

While I may be able to rustle up a crumble or the odd fairy cake, jam tart and Victoria sponge, I haven't really broadened my limited baking repertoire since GCSE cookery.

But there will be no wedding cakes, no canapes or picnic baskets just yet.

Small steps, small steps.

My heart sinks. The kids want cake pops. Mini works of art.

So I started off with a visit to a cook shop to replenish stocks. It took ages, like wading through mud. They have gadgets for everything.

Laden with all the necessary equipment to make cake pops – a mould and some sticks – Operation Bake Off was launched.

The children are thrilled. But I am slightly nervous about how this is going to go. They want to help.

For them it means they get to fire up the mixer to full speed, inevitably sending clumps of gooey mess sprawling across floors, walls and ceilings.

Little fingers are constantly being dipped in the mix. It's a battle to save some.

Baking in our house resembles something of a comedy sketch. Try baking cakes with an independent two-year-old who wants to do everything himself.

Turn your back for a second and eggs start to roll off the worktop, flour is over enthusiastically sieved everywhere and cake mixture is smeared and smudged all over fingers, faces and clothes.

The kitchen is a sorry sight but the mixture is ready. Lumpy but ready.

We finally master the silicone cake pop moulds, the top is on and we're off. They're in the oven.

Chief helper has to inform me when 15 minutes cooking time is up.

Terrified of missing his deadline, he parks himself cross-legged in front of the oven, counting down the minutes.

It gives me chance to try and wipe down the younger one who by now has his head fully immersed in the mixing bowl trying to scrape up any last bit of cake mixture. Time is up and the cakes are out. Cue stomping feet – they have to wait just a little bit longer, they are way too hot to eat.

But at last triumph.

The pops pop out of their mould – some round, some definitely not – and the sticks are in.

Okay I confess, there is no icing. I am exhausted and they just want to eat the lot.

A quiet finally descends on the kitchen as the two mini bakers munch at their wares.

Now the boys want to know what we're baking next Saturday night.

I take a look at the kitchen.

Not sure I can stand the heat. Hat's off to Frances, Ruby and Kimberley.

Maybe I will just stick to Strictly.

Claire Dunn